Valkyrie
by Cairo Mors
Summary: AU. Isabella Swan is born in Norse Greenland in 1411 as Ísleif Svansdottir. She becomes a vampire in 1427. This is her story.
1. Chapter 1: Death and Rebirth

**T**

he year was 1427 and the Norse settlements of Greenland were declining. Brattahlid, which had once been a promising colony with hundreds of people was now a ghost-town. Far more serious, though, were the mysterious deaths that were plaguing the few settlers left. One by one, day by day, the population dwindled until all that was left of Brattahlid was a lone family.

A father Karl, and his daughter, Ísleif. The girl's mother, Svan, who had been a Skræling, had died ten years prior in a hunting accident. The girl's mixed Norse/Skræling heritage had been a source of contempt for most of the settlement. Thus, Karl and his daughter lived in relative isolation, on the outskirts of Brattahlid. This had been their saving grace for some time, as they had been unharmed by whatever it was that was leaving behind settlers drained of their blood.

On a particularly snowy day, in the already freezing weather of Greenland, their luck ran out. As Karl and Ísleif attempted to flee the island, they were approached by a strange man.

He had dark black eyes, light blond hair, a wide forehead, and a prominent chin. His physical build was rather slight. In fact, Ísleif was taller than him. What was most interesting about the stranger, however, was his skin. The man was extremely pale, even for a Norseman. All in all, the stranger was beautiful.

And yet, Ísleif, felt ill at ease in his presence. Something about the stranger reminded her of something her mother, Sven, had warned her of as a child. Before she could think to warn her father of the man, Ísleif watched as the man disappeared from in front of her. She felt a gust of wind sweep past her and then immediately sensed a presence behind her.

Whirling around in shock, Ísleif watched in horror as the stranger snapped her father's neck. Ísleif cried out. Her father was dead. She was an orphan. It soon got worse though. The man bit into her father's neck with ease and drank. He was feeding on her father's blood!

Ísleif realized exactly what the man was and what her mother had warned her of so many winters ago. He was a Cold One. Ísleif ran for her life. She knew that the chances of her outrunning him were close to none, but she wouldn't stand around and wait for the monster to finish feeding on her father and then move on to her. She wouldn't hand herself over to him and to death so easily.

Ísleif ran, faster than she had ever ran in her entire life, but compared to the monster, she must have been a hobbling cripple. Within seconds he was upon her.

"Now, now girl. There's no more need to run. It will all be over soon. It's always a shame to kill a young lady, especially one as beautiful and unique as yourself. But hunger is hunger. And you look more delicious than most."

The man lunged at her. Ísleif felt a terrible sensation at her neck. His teeth were ripping into her skin and bloodying everything. And then he was gone.

Ísleif could distantly hear snarling and the howl of wolves. Loud noises echoed through the night, like boulders crashing together. As loud as they were, Ísleif could hardly hear them.

A fire had ignited in her neck, and seemed to creep through her body. The pain from the wound seemed to pale in comparison to the agony that the slow boil of her blood was causing. Ísleif fell unconscious.

But the roaring flames did not relent.

 **T** wo days later, Ísleif awoke. The fire that had burned through her body had run its course, leaving behind a body that felt stronger than ever, and a heart that no longer beat.

Ísleif immediately understood what she was, the power in her limbs, and the thirst burning in her throat left no doubts. Opening her eyes, Ísleif witnessed a familiar and get much altered scene. The environment that she had seen throughout her entire life seemed to have come alive. Ísleif could distinguish between several colours of snow, and each individual snowflake that fell from the night sky.

Even more impressive than her vision, was her sense of smell. Ísleif could smell the snow, her own floral scent overlaid with dirt, and her waterlogged furs, the remnants of a thick, almost greasy smog. That last scent triggered in Ísleif an almost primal response, her body tensed and she snarled. Immediately she understood that the smog was a result of a burnt Cold One. The thought of herself at the mercy of flames was enough to make Ísleif bolt.

Ísleif flew through the air, running at speeds that would surpass the fastest animals in the world. She was determined to get as much distance between her, and whoever, or whatever it was that was capable of killing a Cold One, now that she herself was one. As she ran however, she noticed that a mouthwatering scent had tinged the air, setting her throat aflame. Without even meaning to, she adjusted her course. As the scent intensified, so too did her need for whatever it was that was causing it. Her vision had tunneled. All that mattered in that moment was the scent, and the heartbeat that she could now hear accompanying it. She felt venom pool in her mouth.

Ísleif lunged, and with a sickening crack she ripped the skull off of her prey. Blood squirted in the air and coated her furs, her hair and her face, but Ísleif didn't notice. Her victim's heart hadn't yet registered that it belonged to a headless body, and that it should stop beating, so wave after wave of hot blood gushed into Ísleif's waiting mouth.

After the body had given all it could, Ísleif felt sated. Her skin felt warm, and flushed, and there was a pleasant warmth in her stomach as well. She had never felt so good in her life.

Ísleif for the first time really noticed her prey. She was shocked. Could it be possible?


	2. Chapter 2: Burials and Burnings

1442, Iberian Peninsula.

Ísleif ran amongst the wilderness, hunting for any prey that roamed the land. As usual, she delighted in the chase. She was, after all, the consummate huntress. No animal could outrun her, no scent could evade her, no one could fend her off. She was the Queen of the Hunt and she knew it.

Her long graceful legs raced against the forest floor as she chased after her prey. Suddenly, however, a rhythm made it itself known, accompanied by the most insanely mouthwatering smell she had ever encountered.

The few humans she had found in Greenland had all smelt off-putting. In fact, to be honest, they had smelled horrible. Their bodies, while always clean, as they hardly sweated and washed frequently, gave off a musty, wet fur odour, that was thoroughly unappealing. Not even the steady pulse in their necks - so very inviting - was enough to tempt her. She had spent all her years as a vampire as a vegetarian, believing that all humans were unappetizing. This had been a pleasant surprise to her because the stories her mother had told had all indicated that human blood was a vampire's normal diet, and because Ísleif had no desire to murder a human being.

Thus, as she changed her trajectory, and set out after the animal capable of producing such a heavenly scent, she had no idea that a human could be the origin.

And yet… as she broke her victim's neck and slurped the blood out of it's system, she came to the realization that her victim was most definitely human. A human woman.

The body tumbled to the floor.

Ísleif's entire body shook, and she backed off in horror. How had this happened? How could she have done this?

That heavenly scent had lead her to ruin. It had made her a murderer.

No. As much as she wanted to lay the blame on the scent, and on her vampire nature, Ísleif knew that her own arrogance had played a large role. She had been so quick to believe that she had been a different type of vampire. Her mother's stories had all warned of the blood craze but she had been eager to be the exception. A special vampire, she thought with sarcasm.

"Isabella?"

Ísleif's head whipped around, as her vision settled on a limping man. He called out for Isabella again. And again. And again.

Ísleif realized with trepidation that the woman she had just slaughtered must be the Isabella this man was looking for. She ducked in the bushes and waited for the man to find the body.

"ISABELLA! NOOOO! SHE'S DEAD! She's dead!", the man screamed in utter anguish.

Ísleif could feel a stinging in her eyes, and an aching in her chest, and yet no tears fell.

From all around, people came streaming in, all curious to see what had caused those guttural screams, and all heartbroken when they saw Isabella's lifeless body.

With shorn auburn hair, a slight frame, a cleft chin, rotten teeth, and ragged clothes, Isabella had been no beauty. Yet, all Ísleif could think of in that moment was the treasure that she had robbed from the world. This woman had obviously meant a great deal to all those gathered around her body. This Isabella had been loved by so many people so fiercely that they had all come out in force to mourn her death.

Ísleif forced herself to watch it all. The vigil, the mass, the procession, and finally, the solemn burial. She had taken Isabella's life, and now she observed her in death, to honour her victim, and as an act of penance.

She trailed into the little graveyard to pay her respects.

After hours of silent contemplation at the foot of the rather crude headstone that had been erected for Isabella, a voice cut through the air.

"Can I help you?" it called out to her.

"I am just paying my respects."

"Oh. I am Fernando. I was going to be her husband. Who, may I ask, are you?"

"My name is..."

"Yes?..."

"My name is Isabella!"

 **1454**. Paris, France.

Alice Brandon danced through the streets of Paris, her short, lithe figure moving in complex manoeuvres that left her audience in awe. People cheered as Alice, leaped and pirouetted, twirled and rolled, all while clapping away at her cymbals. She was as graceful as a swan. She was, amongst other things, the Dancing Gypsy.

Suddenly, however, the dancing stopped and Alice jerked to a halt. Her skin paled, her eyes became unfocused, and she let out an anguished scream.

The crowd around her muttered and looked around uneasily. What was wrong with the girl?

Alice pointed at the walls of a building, which immediately came crashing down, crushing a host of people.

"The gypsy is a witch!", called a voice from out of the panicked mass. The statement seemed to echo throughout the street. One by one, people began muttering, until the entire crowd was chanting, and the entirety of Paris reverberated with the call.

"BURN! THE! WITCH! BURN THE WITCH!"

Alice trembled in fear. There was nowhere to run, and nobody to save her. She would be burnt at the stake.

The crowd grasped at her, pinching and punching, and groping and ripping at her skin and her clothes, until Alice was left stark naked in the Parisian streets, being lead to her death.

She was marched to the plaza in front of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris, where a pyre had already been erected. The people were eager to burn the witch.

She was tied to the stake, a prayer was said, and the pyre was set aflame to the cheers of the people.

Alice could feel the flames licking at her feet, and she shrieked as the fire threatened to touch her skin. She sobbed as she thought of all that she was losing out on, all the dreams that she had for her life, all the premonitions she had of -

Her premonitions!

Alice had received a vision of a woman burning as a child, and it haunted her nightmares for years after. Now, however, she understood that the burning woman was HER. And if that was the case, then she knew what happened next.

Alice laughed. In fact, she threw back her head and roared in a manner more befitting a gruff bear than a tiny 18 year-old girl, and in the next instant, Alice was gone.

The crowd screeched, and mass panic set in. The citizenry of Paris fled in utter horror.

The Dancing Gypsy, and her burning, would be ingrained in Paris' collective conscience for centuries after.


End file.
